


They Say you go Blind

by Eldalire



Category: Les Miserables, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blind Character, Disabled Character, M/M, dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7641430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a 1 in a billion chance accident, Jehan loses not only his eyesight, but his desire to exist.  Feuilly suggests trying dance lessons to lift his spirits.  At first, Prouvaire is skeptical, but Grantaire, his teacher with a disability of his own, shows him life can still have meaning, even after losing something.</p>
<p>title is a play on the song 'my junk' from Spring Awakening</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Please leave.” Jehan said quietly as he sat on the bed, hearing the squeaky door.

            “I just wanted to—”

            “Feuilly leave me alone!” he took the copy of _The Iliad_ off his night table and threw it, completely missing the doorway, the antique pages fluttering to the ground.

            “I’ve left you alone for three months, Jehan! You need to get out of bed!” he shouted. Jehan buried his face in his pillow, grabbing another and holding it over his head and ears. “I know you can hear me, Jehan. Please. Please get out of bed.”

            “Why?”

            “We’ll do something. Anything. I just can’t live like this anymore,”

            “ _You_ can’t live like this anymore?! At least you still _want_ to live, Feuilly!” he cried, his dead, hazy eyes filled with tears, staring blankly at the wall. Feuilly looked away with a sigh, tears coming to his own eyes.

            “I’m sorry, Jehan. I know it’s hard…But we have to go. I signed you up for dance lessons.” He explained with a smile, though he knew Jehan could not see. “I thought it might be fun for you to try something new.”

            “How am I supposed to do that? I can’t! I can’t do anything!”

            “It’s a special class. They have ways to teach…people like you.” he attempted, becoming very quiet. He knew Jehan hated the word. He would fly into a rage if he heard anyone say it, about him or otherwise.

            “Why didn’t you ask me before signing me up for the stupid thing?” he replied, sitting up, his hair a mess, in the same pajamas he had been in for the past week. Even getting him to eat was a hassle. Getting him to shower was near impossible. Leaving the apartment was out of the question. Jehan did nothing because he was convinced he could do nothing. Not anymore. Not without his eyes.

            “Because I knew you would say no. Any because Combeferre said it would be good for you.” Feuilly said, leaning against the doorframe. Combeferre was five years older than Jehan, who was 20, and was a psychologist. Combeferre had been seeing him, no charge, since the lightening strike that almost killed him three months ago. Courfeyrac, a close friend and the doctor who treated him, said that most people die immediately after a direct hit, and that Jehan had been lucky. But Jehan wasn’t so sure.

He wished it had killed him. Taking away his livelihood, his independence, and his passion was a fate worse than death. Without his sight, Jehan couldn’t write nor read, hence his complete destruction of a rare edition of _the Iliad_ a moment before. He hated himself. He hated that Feuilly, his roommate, had to take care of him, but not as much as he hated the sound of his mother crying…Feuilly had volunteered to keep Jehan with him, because his condition upset his mother so much. Jehan felt like an item being passed around, like a bad cold hopping from one person to another. Nobody wanted him, but someone had to put up with him, because he could no longer take care of himself.

Jehan sighed heavily, sitting on the edge of the mattress, reaching below the night table and picking up the folded white cane that always resided there. He stood, and Feuilly watched as his lifeless eyes flicked around the room.

“Do you need help?” he asked. Jehan’s face became hot, his cheeks flushing pink, but he made no reply, keeping one hand on the bed and walking himself around to his closet. He reached into the wall of clothes, feeling about with his free hand until he grabbed what he was searching for.

“These are the pink leggings,” he announced to Feuilly, who had moved to sit on the bed. Jehan never asked, he only stated. He hated asking for help, and very rarely phrased anything as a true question.

“They’re pale green. Do you want me to grab you the pink ones?” he replied cautiously, knowing Jehan would get angry. He fisted his hand around his cane and set his jaw, making no reply and continuing to feel around.

“These are the ones I wanted.” Jehan said after another moment, grasping the pair of pale pink leggings he liked to wear. If he wasn’t in his pajamas, he was in a pair of leggings and a sweater that was far too large for him. It seemed his love of dressing up and trying new clothes had gone with his sight.

“That’s them.” Feuilly said, approaching the closet and pulling out Jehan’s favorite sweatshirt—a floral patterned one he expected Jehan to look for next. But Jehan heard his footsteps and reached for him, his sightless eyes cast down, finding Feuilly’s arm after a moment and holding it tightly.

“I don’t need help.”

“I just figured you’d want this.” He handed the floral sweatshirt to Jehan. “Get dressed, then we’ll go.” He left the room, leaving Jehan alone again.

 

            “Let go of me,” Jehan demanded as Feuilly took his arm to guide him inside the dance studio. He yanked it away, walking with his cane in front of him.

            “Courf said to sweep it side to side, remember?” Jehan made no reply, but caught his shoulder on the doorway as they entered. Embarrassment washed over him, flooding his cheeks a rosy shade. Surely everyone was staring at him, but how was he to know? However, he couldn’t hear anyone moving about inside. All he heard was Feuilly following him in and guiding him to a bench.

            “Stay here. I just have to let the instructor know you’re here.” He stated, standing and walking away. Jehan could hear him speaking to someone in the next room, but couldn’t catch exactly what they were saying. He did, however, hear them laughing, and he was sure it was at him. He fisted his hands around the folded cane in his lap.

            “This is Jehan. Jehan, this is R. He’s going to teach you, okay?”

            “Stop talking to me like I’m a four year old, Feuilly.”

            “Hey Jehan,” the new voice, R, said.

            “Hello.”

            “Ready to start?” Jehan said nothing.

            “I’ll pick you up in an hour, alright?”

            “Alright.”

            “Try to have fun, okay?” Jehan said nothing. R sat beside him the moment Feuilly left, giving Jehan a small tap on the shoulder, just to tell him where he was. Jehan sat still, his sightless eyes trained straight ahead, still and lifeless.

            “Not too keen on being here, huh?” R said in his creamy voice, a voice Jehan couldn’t help but listen to. He wanted him to keep talking, to just listen to him the entire hour, but he knew that was not a possibility, so instead he shrugged, closing his eyes, though it made no difference. He still couldn’t see anything. He might as well have kept them closed all the time.

            “We don’t have to dance if you don’t want to. We can just sit and talk or do whatever you want. You’re an adult. I’m not going to force you.” he laughed lightly. “My name’s Grantaire, by the way. I usually go by R, but whatever.”

            “You already know I’m Jehan Prouvaire,”

            “I do.”

            “I don’t have much else to say, then. I’m not very interesting.” He said in a whisper, wringing his hands, his cane rested on his knees.

            “I’m not very interesting either. You want to try dancing?”

            “No.”

            “You just want to keep talking, then?”

            “I don’t know.” He fisted his hands again, becoming increasingly angry at Feuilly for brining him here without asking him first. He wanted to go back to bed. He wanted to stay in bed forever.

            “I’m sorry…I know it sucks.”

            “You don’t know anything.” He replied, his soft, songlike voice becoming a low growl. He turned away.

            “Well…I don’t know how exactly you feel, but…Can you give me your hand?”

            “Why?”

            “I want to show you something.”

            “If you make me touch your face and describe what you look like I’ll hit you square in the jaw I swear to God.”

            “I’m not going to! I told you, I know how you feel.”

            “No you don’t.”

            “I do.” He took Jehan’s hand in his own and put it to his forearm.

            “Wow. Your arm.” Jehan retorted. “I know what it is. Do you think this is funny?”

            “Move your hand down. Towards my wrist.” Jehan bowed his eyebrows, but did as Grantaire said, inching down his arm and to his wrist.

            “Keep going,” he instructed. Jehan did, very slowly, apprehensive, but startled and pulled away. There was no hand at the end of Grantaire’s wrist, only a smooth stump.

            “Wha—”

            “I was an artist. Then I lost my right hand to a garbage disposal when I was drunk. Stupid. Then I tried to kill myself, but I couldn’t load my pistol with one hand. I know how you feel. I know it sucks. That’s why I started teaching lessons here. I thought maybe I could make someone else’s life suck less.” He gave a little smile.

            “I still don’t want to dance.” Jehan said, feeling just a tad guilty for being so bitter. Maybe Grantaire did know what he was feeling…Jehan’s passion was for writing. He had a collection of beautiful, expensive calligraphy pens that he used to pull across paper in effortless poems and stories. Though he could still write—he was learning how to use a special brail keyboard system—it would never be the same as his silky smooth pens and jet black ink. Not to mention the sting of the loss was still so new. It had been hardly three months since Jehan’s sight was lost.

            “Fair enough. Want to take a walk or something? It’s warm today,” Jehan sighed. Everyone was treating him like a child. But there was little else to do, so he stood and unfolded his cane. Grantaire took that as a yes and held the door for him.

 

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking,” Grantaire said after a bit of quiet walking.

            “You’d never guess,” Jehan said, his spirits lifting ever so slightly in the sunshine. Being outside seemed to make everything better. You didn’t need to see to enjoy the smell of the flowers, or the warmth of the sun, or the sound of the birdsongs.

            “Was it…a car accident?” Grantaire guessed. Jehan shook his head.

            “I was struck by lightening.” He said, pulling up his sleeve. “Feuilly, my roommate…” he paused for a moment. Feuilly had moved in with him after his accident. He said it was because he couldn’t afford his rent anymore, but everyone, including Jehan, knew it was to fill a caretaker position. Jehan’s father had died in Iraq, a doctor at a military hospital, and that combined with Jehan’s misfortune had thrown his mother into hysterics. She was unable to care for him, but someone had to look after the newly handicapped Jehan, and though he appreciated it, he was also slightly resentful. Why had his independence been stripped from him? What did he do to deserve this? He sighed and continued after a second,

            “He says there’s a scar that goes all over my body. I can’t see it, but he said it runs all down my arms and my back. Can you see it?” he asked, holding out his arm. Grantaire studied the branching design that twisted in jagged lines down Jehan’s arm, all the way to his hand. It traveled up, disappearing under his sleeves. Grantaire thought it was beautiful, in a scary, morbid sort of way, and said so.

            “It looks like you have tree branches growing all over you. It’s actually really amazing.”

            “I wish I could see them…I used to write quite often…poetry…I think the scar would have made an interesting subject, but it’s hard to describe something you can’t see or smell or feel…”

            “My friend Bahorel says the scar at the end of my stump arm looks like a rubber duck,” Grantaire noted, attempting to pull Jehan’s thoughts away from his own disability.

            “really?” he asked with a smile, the first Grantaire had seen from Prouvaire.

            “Yeah. It’s sort of weird,” he laughed.

            “What time is it?”

            “11:34,”

            “We should go back…class is half over and we haven’t done any dancing,” Jehan smiled.

            “You want to try?” Grantaire asked, surprised. He wasn’t expecting much out of Jehan…Not today anyhow—and was glad he had asked. He had changed his demeanor drastically in the past half hour, and Grantaire hoped he would continue in the same way.

            “I think it could be nice to try…for a little while, anyway,” he replied. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter explores the relationship between Feuilly and Jehan in further depth, and goes into Feuilly's feelings about Jehan and what's happened. It was difficult for me to write, as I have never experienced anything like what these characters are going through, so feedback is welcome and appreciated!

As it turns out, Jehan wasn’t very good at dancing. Not at all. But even so, the class turned out well, and ended with Jehan and Grantaire hand in hand, laughing as Feuilly opened the studio door.

            “Looks like things went well,” he said with a smile. Jehan startled at his voice and whipped his head around towards the sound. He smiled, though he was facing the wall, not Feuilly, and gave a little wave.

            “Better than I thought,” Jehan admitted. “But I am a very poor dancer,”

            “That’s what classes are for!” Grantaire chimed with a grin, walking over to the hooks on the walls where Jehan’s cane was hung by the wrist strap. He handed it to him. “See you next week?” he looked to Feuilly.

            “Sooner?” Jehan asked quietly, his delicate hands rested on the top of his cane. Feuilly smiled.

            “Wednesday?” he suggested, looking back to Grantaire.

            “Works for me. We can go longer if you want. I don’t have many students,” he smiled. Jehan returned the grin meekly.

            “I’d like that, I think. Thank you,” he replied.

            “See you later, Prouvaire,”

            “Mind if I lead you out?” Feuilly asked quietly as Grantaire closed the door to the studio room. Jehan set his jaw, ever so slightly angry, but only for a moment before nodding and giving Feuilly his elbow, allowing himself to be lead out to the car.

 

The next day, Tuesday, was difficult. Though he had found happiness the day before in Grantaire’s company, it hadn’t lasted. After his lesson, he had more or less climbed back into bed and stayed there.

Feuilly sat on the edge of the mattress Tuesday morning, in an attempt to offer some sort of comfort, though he wasn’t sure how. This was a daily occurrence, and quite honestly, he was getting tired. He loved Jehan dearly, he really did, but he was running out of patience. He did everything for Jehan, and though he understood his distress, he couldn’t understand why he seemed to bask in self-pity. Sometimes, Feuilly couldn’t help but think he enjoyed sobbing in his bed, for he did nothing to change his situation, but perhaps that’s just how depression works.

“You did really well yesterday at your class,” he said, placing his large hand over Jehan’s shaking shoulder as he lay with his face flat in a pillow, crying. “I’m proud of you,”

“Leave me alone,”

“But why? Don’t you want to do something? Want to listen to music or make cookies…I could read to you—”

“Why would you ever say that!” he shouted, enraged as he sat up, his face beet red. His useless eyes were red and swollen, fixed straight ahead, though he meant to give Feuilly a death glare. Feuilly sighed.

“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help you, really I am. But I don’t know what to do anymore. You were so happy yesterday with your dance teacher. What did he do? What can I do?”

“You don’t understand,”

“So help me understand,”

“I can’t.” he replied, pulling the elastic out of his long, red hair, pulling it from its loose ponytail and re-tying it.

Feuilly couldn’t help but admire Jehan’s beautiful form. He really was a pristine example of a human being, with his creamy skin and long, slender limbs. His face was like the face of a doll, with large eyes and a perfectly symmetrical nose and mouth. Freckles peppered his cheeks. But what Feuilly found most enchanting were his heterochromic eyes; one was a deep grey, the other a shadowy green. It was difficult to see at first, but amazing to Feuilly, nonetheless. He sighed, remembering Jehan before the lightening strike. Though it was hard for him to imagine it now, he had been in love with Prouvaire, once. He really didn’t know him well, only from school, but simply couldn’t put him out of his mind. He was quirky, artistic, charmingly shy, and Feuilly simply couldn’t stay away. He also couldn’t work up the courage to say anything.

He had volunteered as caretaker in an attempt to get closer to his friend, underestimating the change that Jehan underwent after the accident. He was no longer the sweet, joyous, secretive poet. He was now dark, angry, and stubborn. He was not the Prouvaire Feuilly had fallen in love with. He was still a friend, but no longer an ideal. Feuilly fell out of love and into simple caring, looking after Jehan when he was completely helpless and doing his best to bring him back up to independence, though it was difficult when Jehan wouldn’t even get out of bed most days.

“I...I mean…I hate to bring it up, but you are going to have to shower at some point today,” he said after a long while of silence.

“I don’t want to,” Jehan replied, flopping back down onto the bed.

“Why? Don’t you like being clean?” Feuilly asked.

“It’s humiliating.” He admitted, and Feuilly sighed. “I’m very embarrassed, if you must know,”

“You know I don’t care, Jehan. It isn’t a big deal,”

“It isn’t a big deal because you’re not the one stripped in front of someone you can’t see.”

“We’ve both got the same stuff,” he said with a chuckle, in an attempt to cheer Jehan up, but he only exhaled sharply, setting his jaw.

“I could do it myself,”

“You said that last time, and look what happened,” he reminded him, losing his patience. Jehan was stubborn. He would never ask for help, ever, and very rarely accepted it. A few days ago, the last time Jehan showered, he insisted he bathe himself, and Feuilly agreed after a long battle, trying to explain to Jehan that it was okay to need help. But he would have none of it, and wound up slipping and falling, his hand bleeding with a cut from Feuilly’s shaving razor, and slathered with hair gel he thought was soap.

“You’re the idiot who stores hair gel in the shower instead of in a drawer like everyone else,” he retorted feebly.

“Come on. Just let me help you,”

“Maybe you could just put everything I need somewhere I can get it, and then—”

“We tried that, remember? You can’t wash your body with hair conditioner, even if the bottle is the same shape,”

“They smell different—maybe…”

“Please just let me help you. It’s okay to need help, especially when this is so new. You’ll be able to do things on your own again, just not right now. But that’s okay. Just let me help.” Jehan’s eyes filled with tears as he sat on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed across his chest.

“Why do you stay here? Why don’t you leave? I’m not kind to you, I don’t help you with anything. I can’t give you anything in return. What good are you getting out of this?”

“You’re my friend. I don’t need to get anything out of it,” he smiled, taking Jehan’s hands and hoisting him up to standing. “Come on. I won’t come in till you’re in the shower, alright?”

“Alright,”

“Then I’ll just hand you stuff like usual. It’ll be fine.”

“Alright.”

 

Jehan was always in a slightly better mood after showering, _slightly_ being the key word. Instead of going back to bed, he would drag himself to the couch and listen to the TV or practice reading braille. Feuilly would sit in the armchair and simply watch him, wishing he would be happy. Wishing he would somehow return to the Prouvaire that made his heart flutter, but it never happened. And Feuilly simply couldn’t let go. He couldn’t fathom how the Prouvaire who sat before him now was the same person he had fallen so hopelessly in love with. It was like his muse had died, and he took it the same way. He grieved for the Jehan he lost the same way one grieves for the dead, but he never showed his despair to Jehan. He knew it was selfish. He knew his motif for his entire living condition was selfish, and he knew Prouvaire would be angry, as he should be, if he found out. And so Feuilly kept his tears to himself, restricting them to only his bathroom, and only at night, after Jehan had been put to bed.

            He hadn’t anticipated exactly how much help Jehan would need. He needed to be woken up in the morning, as he had difficulty keeping track of time and discerning day from night. He also needed to be dressed, which was a chore. Of course, Jehan wanted to dress himself, but he was always mismatched and missing buttons and putting things on inside out. Feuilly knew it was better to embarrass Jehan in the comfort of his own home, with nobody else around, than to let him find out later on his own that he had dressed himself incorrectly when he was out, so of course, Feuilly would correct him, and Jehan would get angry. He always targeted his rage at Feuilly, though he was truly only frustrated with himself, and he knew that, but even so, he couldn’t help but take the shouting to heart. Feuilly was only so confident, and when Jehan wore him down day after day after day, he did occasionally explode, screaming and yelling and making Jehan cry, which he hated to do. The entire situation was just sad and frustrating. But even getting dressed wasn’t as bad as meal time.

           The lightening strike didn’t just take Jehan’s vision. It had also given him permanent tremors. His hands shook whenever he was doing anything even somewhat delicate, including eating. He could handle eating with a fork, as the food couldn’t shake away, but spoons were another story. Cereal would splash all over his hand, soup would spill down his front. Sometimes he missed the bowls and plates altogether, once becoming so angry he plunged a fork about a centimeter into the wooden tabletop. There were days his tremors were so bad, Feuilly had to feed him, which Jehan did not tolerate. He would refuse to open his mouth and turn his head away, tears running down his cheeks. He would go entire days without eating, if he was allowed, but Feuilly learned quickly he could not let Jehan do that to himself. He was so skinny to begin with, losing any weight would threaten his health. He force fed him at least one day a week. Sometimes—many times—Feuilly considered leaving; simply walking out of the house and not coming back.

            “Feuilly?” Jehan called from the bathroom over the pattering of the shower. He stood from the bed and opened the bathroom door, handing Jehan the liquid soap from the counter.

            “That’s soap, alright? Put it on the floof thing. It’s hanging from the—”

            “From the hook on the shelf, I know,” he replied, taking the slender bottle from Feuilly around the shower curtain, promptly dropping it with his shaky hands.

            “Fuck!” he hissed, feeling around on the slippery floor.

            “Here, let me—” Feuilly peered around the shower curtain, eliciting a prompt scream from Jehan, who grabbed it and pulled it shut.

            “Prouvaire, now you’re just being immature!” Feuilly said harshly.

            “Do you like it when people pull your shower curtain back and look at your gross naked body?!” Jehan retorted coldly.

            “You don’t have a gross body,” Feuilly replied, the familiar feeling of guilt creeping into his mind. He knew it was disgusting to use a caretaking position as an excuse to see someone in a vulnerable position, and yet that’s more or less what he was doing. Jehan was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, and though Feuilly would never act upon his desires, he was human, and though Jehan’s personality and outlook had changed, the rest of him had not, save for the addition of the branching Lichtenberg scars that spiraled around his body.

            “Sorry,” he replied, taking a deep breath, calming himself down. “Did you get it?”

            “Yes,” he replied, soaping up and rinsing off.

            “Here’s the shampoo,” he said, handing the bottle around the shower curtain, not daring to look around it again, not only upon Prouvaire’s request, but for his own sake. He couldn’t get the image of his unrequited lover out of his head, and seeing him would only exacerbate the problem. In his mind, Jehan was a pale angel, slender and fair, girlish from behind, ethereal from everywhere, and looking upon the real thing was far from sobering. Instead of an idyllic exaggeration, Feuilly’s mind came up short of the real Jehan. How he loved him. How he missed him. The _old_ him. The _real_ Prouvaire.

            “Hand me a towel,” Jehan said, shaking Feuilly from his thoughts.

            “It’s hanging on the curtain rod,” he replied. Jehan pulled it down and dried off.

            “My clothes are on the counter,” he stated, unsure if it was true, but Feuilly affirmed.

            “Yup,” he said simply, sitting on the toilet seat.

            “Then leave.” Jehan replied, equally as short. Feuilly stood with a sigh and left the bathroom, closing the door and heading for his own room.

            “I’m going to take a nap,” he called back, flopping into his bed before Jehan could reply, tears coming to his eyes.

            He felt terrible for feeling the way he did. It was nothing but selfish want for something he couldn’t have, someone that no longer existed in anything but body. He knew he shouldn’t desire someone for their looks alone, and he didn’t. Not really. He wanted his Jehan back, the one who had died in the lightening strike. The body was simply a painful reminder of someone Feuilly had loved, and he hated it. He hated the entire situation. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to anybody.

 

What had he done to deserve this?


	3. Chapter 3

Perhaps ‘eager’ wasn’t the right word to describe Jehan’s willingness to get out of bed Wednesday morning, but it was something close. He wasn’t quite as depressed as usual, and Feuilly only had to wake him up once instead of the usual two or three times.

            “Does this look alright?” he asked, walking out of the bathroom in a pair of tie-dye leggings he made in high school, as well as a black t shirt with the ‘Queen’ logo in white across the chest. Queen was one of Jehan’s favorite bands.

            “Yeah. I like those tights,” Feuilly smiled, proud of Jehan for trying a different outfit, for once. He usually stuck to oversized sweaters and worn out sweatshirts, making him look frumpy and sad, puddle-like. The t-shirt made him look better, healthier, less skinny and sickly. Jehan actually smiled, something Feuilly didn’t expect. “Ready to go?”

            “I think so,” he replied, making his way to his shoes, his cane out in front of him, gliding across the floor. He sat down in front of the door and attempted to tie his favorite yellow Chuck Taylors, but after many attempts, he couldn’t manage to get them to stay. He sighed heavily.

            “Let me do it,” Feuilly said, kneeling and tying Jehan’s shoes as he pushed a lock of stray hair behind his ear, the rest held half-up, leaving the rest long. “You’re doing great today. I’m proud of you,” he added, taking Jehan’s hands and helping him up.

            “I’m not four, Feuilly,” he replied, a slight edge to his voice.

            “I know you’re not. I’m just proud of you,” Jehan shrugged indifferently, heading for the door.

 

“Hey, Jehan! Nice to see you again,” Grantaire said with a smile Jehan could hear in his voice. “Cool shirt. I like Queen,”

            “They’re my favorite,” Jehan replied.

            “I’ll pick you up at 1:00,” Feuilly said with a smile.

            “Alright,” Jehan replied.

            “Feuilly’s a good guy,” Grantaire said, prompting Jehan to sit down by placing his hand on the bench.

            “Yes…He is,”

            “How did you guys meet?” he asked, making conversation…but also honestly curious for…other reasons.

            “We were in college together. He’s older than I am, so he’s finished school, and…I’m taking a year off…” he explained.

            “He lives with you?”

            “Yes.”

            “That’s cool. How long have you guys been together?” Jehan bowed his eyebrows.

            “We’ve lived together since…everything…But we aren’t _together_. He just looks after me. My father died and my mother…can’t handle things…so someone had to take care of me, I guess. I don’t know why Feuilly volunteered, but he did, so he moved in with me.”

            “Oh,” Grantaire said with a smile. “Well that was nice of him,”

            “It was. I’m not exactly easy to get along with…not anymore,”

            “It’s alright. I’m sure it’s tough for you. Everything is different,”

            “You’re right,”

            “Want to dance?”

            “I guess so! I’m not very good!”

            “Well that’s what lessons are for!” he smiled, taking Jehan’s hand and leading him out onto the dance floor.

            “We’ll just keep on doing what we were doing Monday. Do you remember?”

            “A waltz,”

            “Right. So you’re going to step away from me with your right foot as I step forward with my left, but we’ll turn at the same time,”

            “I remember,” Jehan replied, placing his willowy hand onto Grantaire’s shoulder. R placed his on Jehan’s hip. Prouvaire placed his hand hesitantly upon Grantaire’s empty wrist, still a bit unnerved by his lack of a hand. Grantaire saw his discomfort and smiled.

            “It’s alright. Don’t feel bad about my hand. If you’d feel better holding my arm or something, you can do that,” he explained.

            “Oh no, I just…I wish I could see your rubber ducky scar,” he joked, laughing lightly.

            “It’s not that cool. You’re not missing much,” he replied, chuckling. “But anyway, let’s try this…Imagine a box around our feet, so you’ll step to the back corner behind your right foot…good, then bring your other foot to the back left corner as I step…right!” he instructed. “Now the last bit of the step is for you to use your left foot to step forward while I step back, which will sort of bring us to the side a bit, which will make us turn. Do the step a few times, and we’ll make a circle,” Jehan followed the instructions, stumbling just a bit here and there—he wasn’t good with left and rights, even before the lightening strike, and kicked Grantaire’s shins more than once. They only laughed and continued, and before long, Jehan was doing quite well, following Grantaire’s lead, becoming lighter on his feet and gliding across the floor.

            It was an amazing feeling, dancing. Jehan almost felt as if his eyes were supposed to be sightless, that being able to see would have ruined the moment, the weightlessness. No, he wasn’t very good, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love the way his hair flung out behind him as he spun around or the way he seemed to float following Grantaire’s lead. In fact, he hardly noticed when the song ended.

            “You did great,” R said with a smile, freezing in place, giving Jehan’s hip just a little squeeze before they pulled apart. Jehan noticed, and felt himself blush.

            “I know this is supposed to be a dance class, but…” he wrung his hands. Was it weird to ask your teacher for a date?

            “We can do something else if you want,” Grantaire replied with a smile. _Like get a coffee. Or make out._ He thought, though he felt badly about it immediately after.

            “I feel bad. I’m paying you to teach me, but I…I don’t know,”

            “It’s cool. I guess Feuilly didn’t tell you, but I’m a psychologist. We can just talk if you want. Or do whatever,” he smiled.

            “You’re a doctor?” Jehan asked, slightly put off. Feuilly had been making a habit of not telling him things, particularly things that involved him and his treatment. It wasn’t a pattern Jehan wanted to fall into.

            “Not a doctor. I can’t prescribe anything…I just talk people through tough times,” he explained, “Usually after becoming physically disabled in some way. I don’t like the word disabled, though,” he held the door for Jehan, handing him his cane as he passed.

            “You’ve worked with other people like me, then?” Jehan asked, saddened slightly. He thought Grantaire might…might like him…might _more than_ like him. But he was probably like this with everyone he taught. Jehan was just another pathetic blind kid Grantaire felt sorry for. He tightened his grip on his cane.

            “Yes and no,” he replied, thinking. He had never met anyone quite like Jehan before. Yes, he had worked with blind people, but none of them had his charm. He didn’t like any of them as much as he liked Jehan. He looked forward to teaching him, more so than anyone he had instructed previously, and enjoyed their time spent together. In fact, he wished they could be together more often…

            “Everyone is different. I’ve taught blind people, but…nobody’s been like you,” he smiled, and gave Jehan a little nudge, eliciting a chuckle.

            “Really?”

            “Yeah. Hey, what do you say I only charge you for an hour lesson, then we hang out,”

            “You mean like…friends?”

            “Yeah. I mean, I can’t count taking you for a coffee as working,” Jehan smiled

            “I would like that,”

 

            “Do you do this with all of your students?” Prouvaire asked, sipping his cup of tea, his hands shaking as he did so. He desperately hoped he wouldn’t spill anything. He would be terribly embarrassed if he did anything stupid in front of Grantaire.

            “No,” he admitted, “But I like you. You seem like someone I could be…friends with.” Jehan laughed lightly, placing his willowy hand on Grantaire’s lonely wrist as he rested it on the table. It took him a moment to find it, but when he did, he held it gently.

            “Friends,” he replied with a smile.

 

Feuilly was waiting at the studio when Grantaire and Jehan returned.

            “Hey, Prouvaire. Where were you guys?” he asked, standing and meeting them at the door.

            “We called off class a little early and went for tea,” Jehan explained. Feuilly bowed his eyebrows. “Like a little date,” he added with a grin. Grantaire blushed, but laughed it off. It was only a joke…wasn’t it?

            “Sure,” he chuckled. Feuilly did not smile, he just looked to Jehan, watching as he laughed, as he smiled. He caught a glimpse of the old Jehan, the _real_ Jehan, that he loved so much, but he wasn’t happy. His Jehan was with someone else. Someone else made him happy. He had tried so hard to bring Jehan back into joy, back to life, but to no avail, and yet this man, this stupid dance teacher, had done in two days what Feuilly was unable to do in three months. It wasn’t fair! What did he have that Feuilly didn’t?! Nothing!

            “So we’ll see you next week?” Feuilly asked, slight bitterness evident in his voice. Grantaire heard it and frowned mildly.

            “Oh, um…I don’t know. When do you want to come again, Prouvaire?” he asked, looking to Jehan, who held the top of his cane in his gentle hands.

            “Soon,” he replied with a shy smile, a smile Feuilly knew well. A smile he hadn’t seen since before the lightening strike.

            “Lessons are a lot of money, Jehan. I don’t know how often your mom can afford—”

            “We don’t have to do a lesson,” Grantaire broke in. “We can just hang out if you want. I can pick you up,” he offered.

            “I can bring him,” Feuilly broke in, too loudly and too harsh.

            “Oh…Okay. Whatever,” he replied, backing down immediately, not understanding why Feuilly was so angry. Jehan had assured him they weren’t together, but Feuilly sure was acting like an overprotective boyfriend.

            “Why don’t I text you later?” Jehan asked quietly,

            “You have his number?” Feuilly broke in again, again just slightly too harshly.

            “Yes,” Jehan tossed right back. “Is that a problem?”

            “No, I just—nothing. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow, R,” he said, taking Jehan’s hand and leading him out. Jehan yanked his hand away as they began their walk to the car.

            “I can do it myself,” he said quietly, sadly, sweeping his cane back and forth over the sidewalk in front of him. He found the car and got himself into the passenger side and sat quietly, his cane folded in his lap.

            “So you really like Grantaire, huh?” Feuilly asked, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. Jehan smiled and nodded.

            “I do. Thanks for making me go. He’s really helping me, I think,”

            “That’s good…” he replied with a sigh. “What does he do that you like so much? He made you so happy so fast,”

            “I don’t know. It’s just…something about him. He understands,”

            “Understands what?”

            “Everything. He knows how I feel. He knows what it’s like to lose something…”

            “I know what it’s like to lose something,” Feuilly tossed back, too intense. Jehan furrowed his brow.

            “Why are you talking like that? You sound like you’re angry,”

            “Well I guess I am, a little.”

            “But why? You’ve been telling me to get out and try to be happy again, and now that I am, you’re upset. I don’t understand,”

            “I’m not mad at you, I just…I’ve been trying so hard to make you happy for months and months and months, and this random guy turns you around in two days. I don’t get it. Why don’t you talk to me the way you talk to him?”

            “I don’t know,” Jehan said, hostility becoming evident in his voice. “Maybe because you treat me like a child,”

            “Maybe if you didn’t act like a child I wouldn’t treat you like one!”

            “I can’t see, Feuilly!”

            “That doesn’t give you the right to bitch and moan about everything and treat me like your fucking maid!”

            “You signed up for this, Feuilly, not me!”

            “Then maybe I should quit, and let Grantaire take care of you!”

            “I thought you cared about me,” Jehan said, tears coming to his eyes. Feuilly was suddenly struck with guilt. He hated it when Jehan cried.

            “You have no idea,” he replied, parking in front of their building.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Nothing,” he got out and walked around the car, opening the door for Jehan, who stood quietly, unsure what to say or do. “I’m glad you’re happy.” He pulled Jehan into a hug, which he returned.

            “I’m sorry I’m so difficult,” he said as they walked up to their second-floor flat. “I know back in university you…you used to really like me. I just…I’m finding it very difficult to connect with people since…everything. Grantaire sort of knows how I feel, with his arm and all. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate you.”

            “I know. It’s alright. I know it’s hard for you. I’m sorry I get so angry sometimes.”

            “I’m sorry I act so stupid…I’m just…I feel completely helpless, and I don’t like feeling like that. I get so frustrated and I guess you’re the only one around that I can shout at…But that doesn’t mean you deserve it.”

            “It’s okay. Whatever makes you feel better. I’m just glad to see the old you coming back around.” He smiled, and so did Jehan.


	4. Chapter 4

“Why don’t you get a prosthetic hand, Grantaire?” Jehan asked as they walked, holding his hand, allowing himself to be lead. Over the past month, he began to actually enjoy it when someone lead him places, even Feuilly. Someone really had to earn Jehan’s trust to allow them to lead him, and the people he trusted treasured that trust.

                 “I can’t afford one,” he explained. “Not a good one. And I’d rather have nothing than a weird Ken-doll hand,” he chuckled.

                 “Oh I see,” Jehan rested his head against Grantaire’s arm. He was far shorter than Grantaire, and his head only rested on his upper arm.

                 “I really don’t think it would make much difference anyway,” he continued, “I don’t think I’d be able to draw or paint again even if I had one. That’s all I would really want it for,”

                 “That must be so difficult…Losing your passion that way…”

                 “It was at first, but I realized that art really wasn’t my passion. I really just want to make people happy, and before, the only way I could do it was with artwork because I was such a screw up otherwise. But now I have other ways to make people happy.” He smiled.

                 “Well you make me very happy,” Jehan replied with a contented sigh.

                 “You make me very happy too,” Jehan chuckled. “How have things been with Feuilly?”

                 “He has a girlfriend,” Jehan said with a smile. “Her name is Eponine,”

                 “That’s good. He must be doing better now. Has he let you do more on your own?”

                 “Yes. I can tie my shoes, now,” he smiled, “And make oatmeal on the stove!” he chuckled.

                 “Proud of you, Love Bug!” Grantaire grinned, hugging Jehan close to his side. “So how did Feuilly meet Eponine?” he asked.

                 “Feuilly went to that caretakers’ class at the community center you told him about, and Eponine was there, too. Her parents are in prison, I think, and her younger sister is autistic.”

                 “What’s her sister’s name?” Grantaire asked. Jehan raised an eyebrow.

                 “I’m not sure, why?”

                 “My old boyfriend works at a group living facility for intellectually disabled people, and he ran the class. I thought maybe she was one of his students,”

                 “Eponine’s last name is Thenardier…” Jehan continued, somewhat nervous. Grantaire had never talked about this other boyfriend.

                 “Yeah, I think she is one of his students. Azelma, I think,”

                 “Well it’s a small world, isn’t it?” Jehan replied simply, continuing their walk quietly for a moment.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Grantaire said, sensing Jehan’s discomfort. “It was stupid. I was stupid. We weren’t good for each other,”

            “Why not?” Jehan asked, truly only curious. He knew he had nothing to worry about. Not really. Grantaire loved him, he was sure.

            “He was one of those perfect people nobody could ever live up to, and I think on some level he knew it. He knew he was perfect,”

            “But you’re perfect too,” Jehan said, leaning against Grantaire’s arm as they walked, “Why would he leave you? You’re so sweet and kind and patient…”

            “I’ve mellowed out a lot since I dated Enjolras,” he admitted with a small chuckle. “I used to be a terrible alcoholic,”

            “You did? Really?”

            “Really. That’s why he broke up with me. He said if I couldn’t get my drinking under control, he was done. I lied and told him I was sober, but we were making out and he smelled whiskey on me. He slapped me, I yelled, he yelled; he broke all my beer bottles on the floor, I told him he was an arrogant asshole, you know. The works. Then he left, and the next night I got smashed at a party and shredded my hand in a garbage disposal. It was a great week,” he said sarcastically.

            “I’m sorry,” Jehan said, reaching across Grantaire and taking his empty wrist in his hand, running his delicate fingers over the old wound.

            “He felt really bad…He felt like it was his fault. We sort of made up, after I stopped drinking. He works with intellectually disabled adults now…And I’m a psychologist-slash-dance-teacher; I think things worked out. But I have you, now, too. I think I got the better end of the deal, if I do say so myself,” Jehan blushed and smiled.

            “I don’t know about that,”

            “I do. Enjolras was nice, but…you’re sweet. It might sound selfish, but you suit me much better,” he chuckled.

            “Well that’s good,” Jehan replied with a small smile, closing his eyes, giving them a rest. It seemed to him that though his eyes no longer worked, they still strained to see. When his eyes were open, he felt like he was staring into an endless, lightless abyss, and that his retinas were stretched and working hard. When he closed his eyes, they quieted, and he found relief.

                 “Alright, we’re here,” Grantaire said as they approached the ice cream parlor window. Jehan knew they were under the awning by the coolness, the sun no longer beating against his face. “Want me to read you the specials, or are you just going to get the usual?” he asked.

                 “Read, please!” he cooed in reply. Grantaire leaned on the counter and read the list written in chalk above the freezers.

                 “Peachy Sundae: vanilla with peaches, whipped cream, and a pecans, Super Waffle: waffle cone dipped in chocolate and sprinkles with vanilla soft serve and pieces of birthday cake, and The Bomb, a chocolate soft serve in a big bowl topped with an entire cupcake with lots of frosting, vanilla soft serve, sprinkles, chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and a cherry.” Grantaire read.

                 “Are you guys ready to order?” the girl at the counter asked with a smile.

                 “Ready?” Grantaire asked.

                 “I think so,” Jehan smiled.

                 “I’d like a large cone of chocolate, please,” he said. The girl wrote it down.

                 “May I have a small lemon sorbet, please?”

                 “Yup! Out in a sec!” she turned to make the orders, and Grantaire gave Jehan’s hand a tap. Jehan turned to face him.

                 “Why did you ask me to read the specials if you knew you were just going to get what you always get?” he asked with a grin. Jehan smiled.

                 “I like to hear your voice,” he admitted.

                 “Really?” Grantaire replied, leading Jehan to a nearby bench and sitting beside him.

                 “Really,” he put his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, and the girl stepped out from behind the counter and handed them their orders. Jehan held the clear plastic bowl gingerly, his hands trembling, though he enjoyed the cold on his fingertips. He took the spoon carefully and brought it to his mouth very slowly, not wanting to hit himself in the face with it, something he did more often then he’d like to admit. He managed a bite, but dropped the spoon on his lap. He sighed.

                 “Want help?” Grantaire asked. Jehan nodded reluctantly, but allowed Grantaire to feed him, hoping nobody was watching. Surely the interaction was unusual; a young, handsome man feeding a trembling, sickly boy with tangled hair as he wrung his shaking hands in his lap. Not to mention the branching scars that covered his body. He held Grantaire’s ice cream in one hand and his bowl in the other, giving R the extra hand he needed, and sat quietly.

                 “Don’t worry,” Grantaire said, seeing his discomfort.

                 “Is anyone watching?” he asked. He knew Grantaire would tell him the truth.

                 “Yup. There’s a little kid sitting with his mom and he’s looking at us. Want me to say something?”

                 “I don’t know…”

                 “Don’t worry about it.” Grantaire waved to the little boy, spoon in hand, with a smile, and he waved back, embarrassed. His mother followed his gaze and scolded him gently.

                 “I’m sorry,” she called. “He’s only five, he doesn’t understand—”

                 “It’s okay! Just come on over if you have questions!” Grantaire said. Jehan smiled.

                 “You always know just what to do!” he cooed.

                 “People usually stare because they have questions they’re trying to figure out or they’re too shy to ask, so if you tell them it’s okay to ask questions, they stop staring,”

                 “That’s very clever of you, Darling,”

                 “Oh gee,” Grantaire said jokingly, leaning over and taking a lick of his ice cream cone as Jehan held it. “Thanks for the extra _hand_ ,” he smiled.

                 “Thanks for _looking out_ for me,” they laughed. Grantaire continued giving Jehan spoonfuls, but stopped suddenly. Jehan sat quietly, listening, and heard approaching footsteps.

                 “I’m so sorry, he wanted to ask you something,” the woman, the little boy’s mother, said. “I told him it’s impolite, I just—”

                 “It’s all good!” Grantaire said with a smile. “What’s up, little dude?” he asked, Jehan smiled.

                 “I want to see the trees on him,” he said, pointing to Jehan. He laughed, and pushed up his sweatshirt sleeves.

                 “They’re on my legs, too!” he added, extending a leg for the little boy to see.

                 “Is it a scar?” his mother asked.

                 “Yes. I was struck by lightening,” he explained. “My hands shake very badly because of it. That’s why Grantaire was feeding me,”

                 “Did it hurt?” the little boy asked, sitting beside Jehan on the bench. The mother blushed again, but Grantaire smiled.

                 “It did,” Jehan replied, “very badly,”

                 “What else happened?” he asked. “When the lightening hit you, what else did it do?”

                 “It made my hands shake,” he explained, “and I went blind,” he added after a short pause.

                 “It must be very difficult,” the woman said.

                 “It is, sometimes. But Grantaire helps me,” he smiled.

                 “You can’t see anything? How do you walk, then?  
                 “Thomas—” the mother warned, but Jehan didn’t mind much. In fact, he enjoyed speaking with the little boy.

                 “I have my cane,” he reached into his backpack and retrieved the collapsible white cane, unfolding it and handing it to the little boy, who held it carefully.

                 “This is so you don’t hit stuff?” Jehan nodded. “Can I try it?” he asked. Jehan laughed again.

                 “Sure! Just be careful. It’s tricky at first,” the little boy stood and closed his eyes, pushing the cane along, but neglecting to sweep it side to side. Grantaire held out his arm to stop him before he hit the picnic bench. The little boy opened his eyes when he felt Grantaire’s arm against his chest.

                 “Wow you don’t have a hand!” he noted.

                 “Thomas stop that! I am so sorry,”

                 “It’s cool! He is stating a fact!” Grantaire said. Jehan chuckled.

                 “You help him and you don’t have a hand?” Thomas asked.

                 “Yup. He lends me a hand, I lend him my eyes. It works out.”

                 “That’s good,” the little boy said, folding up the cane and handing it back to Jehan. “I can’t think of more questions,” he admitted. Jehan laughed again.

                 “That’s okay. We’re here a lot. Come back if you think of any more,” Grantaire grinned.

                 “Yeah thanks!” he smiled.

                 “Thank you. I’m sorry if we made you uncomfortable,” his mother said, taking his hand.

                 “Not at all,” Jehan smiled. “It was nice to meet you, Thomas,”

                 “Thanks for showing me your tree scars,” he waved as he left with his mother.

                 “See? Now he won’t stare next time, and he probably won’t stare at any other blind person or amputee again, because now he knows it’s not weird,” he stood, lending his hand to Jehan.

                 “You’re right,” he smiled as they started back to Jehan’s flat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic bullshit. Enjoy.

When Feuilly moved in with Eponine, Grantaire took over the position of caretaker for Jehan, and moved in. They had been living together for about two months when Grantaire had his first taste of Jehan’s rage.

            “Leave me alone!” he shouted, turning quickly, meaning to go to his bedroom, but instead running into the counter island, whacking his hip hard. He doubled over. “Fuck!” he screamed, swinging his arm and sending the papers, napkins, and his backpack flying.

            “Jehan!” Grantaire attempted to calm him, taking his shoulder in his hand, using his lonely wrist to brush the hair away from Jehan’s sticky, sweating forehead. “It’s alright. Let me help you—”

            “I don’t _need_ help! Get your _cripple hand_ off me!” he batted Grantaire’s wrist away, and shrugged his hand off. He set his hand on the countertop and used it to orient himself before storming down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Grantaire sighed heavily, his feelings honestly hurt.

            Jehan had been thrown into a spiraling rage when Grantaire suggested he donate his vast collection of books to the university library. Jehan had a passion for literature, and had many rare and valuable books the library would be able to care for properly. But Jehan refused. He stated that those books were his life, and he would not part with them. Though Grantaire had been understanding, Jehan was insulted he would even suggest such a thing, and flew into a fit. Grantaire was surprised at his rage. This was not the Jehan he knew, and he was unsure what to do. For the first time, he understood Feuilly’s frustration. He couldn’t imagine being subjected to Jehan’s verbal abuse every single day.

            After leaving him alone for a few minutes, Grantaire knocked on Jehan’s bedroom door.

            “Jehan?” he called gently. He turned the handle slowly when there was no reply, and found Jehan laying in his bed, asleep. He sat beside him and gently removed his loose braid, running his fingers through Jehan’s strawberry hair. Jehan’s heterochromic eyes fluttered open

            “What are you doing?” he asked quietly, aloof.

            “Just sitting here with you,” he replied, taking Jehan’s hand and running his thumb across his boney knuckles.

            “Why?”

            “Because you’re upset and I care about you,” he pulled Jehan into his lap and held him close, nuzzling his hair with his nose.

            “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I didn’t mean what I said…”

            “It’s alright,” he replied, “I’ve heard worse,” he smiled, and rocked Jehan in his lap.

            “It doesn’t matter. I still shouldn’t have said it,”

            “I forgive you,” he kissed Jehan’s hairline. “I know it’s hard,”

            “It’s just…I already drove Feuilly away, I—I don’t want to drive you away, too,” he began to cry again, tears rolling from his lifeless eyes. Grantaire wiped them away with his sleeve, then tipped Jehan’s chin up with his handless wrist, giving him a gentle kiss. He pulled away shortly, but Jehan reached out a searching hand, first placing it on Grantaire’s neck, but following it up to his cheek, which he took and pulled him back for another, more passionate kiss. Grantaire leaned back, taking Jehan with him, and repositioning himself so that Jehan was laying on his back amidst the pillows, his hair splayed like a fiery halo around his angelic face. Grantaire leaned over his slight frame, slipping a hand behind his neck. Grantaire kissed his jaw.

            “You’ll leave a mark,” Jehan said with a light laugh, raking his careful fingers through Grantaire’s wiry curls.

            “Is that okay?” he replied with a smile, pulling away.

            “Yes,” he pulled Grantaire’s head back down. “I can’t see it anyway,”

            “You don’t need to see to know I love you,” he nuzzled his nose against his ear.

            “It sounds strange, but…” Jehan took a sharp breath when Grantaire bit at his earlobe, “I’ve never done this before. You were my first kiss,”

            “Really?” he pushed himself up above Jehan, looking him over, finding it difficult to believe someone so beautiful had never been with anyone before…hadn’t even made out before.

            “Really,” he replied. “It’s sad…Now I’ll never really see…any of this. I wish I could see your face,”

            “That’s alright. People close their eyes when they kiss anyway,” he lowered himself down again, kissing Jehan’s eyes. “Is the rest of you as freckly as your face?” he asked, jokingly seductive. Jehan laughed.

            “Why don’t you look and see?” he pulled his shirt up over his head, placing it on the bed beside him in a ball.

            “You’re the only person I’ve ever seen gently place their shirt on the bed instead of throwing it on the floor,” Grantaire chuckled, running his fingers across Jehan’s delicate collarbones. People who dated Grantaire quickly discovered his fascination with clavicles. Back when he was an artist, he would fill entire pages of notebooks with just studies of collarbones. He even painted Enjolras’ once, just his collarbones. But Jehan’s were prettier than Enjolras’, thinner, more delicate, with an endearing peppering of freckles.

            “It hasn’t done anything wrong,” Jehan replied, “Why should it be thrown on the floor?” he rested his arms on Grantaire’s shoulders as he laughed in reply. “Am I as freckly as you expected?”

            “More,” he traced the branching scars down his abdomen, from his chest down to the protruding crests of his hipbones. “They’re like a galaxy of stars,”

            “Well that’s poetic,” he giggled as Grantaire kissed at those beautiful collarbones. He ran his empty wrist down Jehan’s side and around to the small of his back.

            “I’m not very good at this anymore,” he said with a chuckle, “Snogging is much better with two hands,”

            “That’s alright. I don’t know if I’m ready for much more than this anyway,” he reached behind his back and took Grantaire’s wrist gingerly, holding it lovingly, running his thumb over the smooth scar.

            “Fair enough,” he smiled, laying down beside him and pulling him into his arms, just snuggling, rubbing his back, a thousand starry freckles interspersed between lightening strike scars.

            “Thank you,” he replied, nestling himself against Grantaire’s chest, running his hand up and down the front of his rugby shirt, the material soft and agreeable to his sensitive fingertips. “I’m sorry…You’re much older than I am, I’m sure you…want more out of a relationship than I’m willing to give you right now,”    

            “No worries. I’m just happy to be with you,” he replied with a smile. “And you make it sound so creepy. I’m only 24. I’m not that much older than you are,” he chuckled, playing with Jehan’s long, silky hair.

            “I’m sure you’ve…done…much more than I have, though. I’ve always been so shy,”

            “Nothing wrong with that,” he smiled. “I like you for you, not for anything else.” Jehan sighed.

            “Thank you for being so kind to me,”

            “You deserve it,”

            “Would…would you help me with the shower?” he asked with a deep blush. Grantaire was taken aback. Jehan never asked for help. He would state that he needed something, or somehow dance around asking a question while still obtaining an answer, but he never, _ever_ asked for help flat out.

            “Yeah. Yeah sure,” he replied, sitting up.

            Even after five months, Jehan still had issues when it came to the shower. With help from Grantaire, he had found a system to identify soap, shampoo, and conditioner by smell, but he still struggled finding things he dropped, forgetting where he put the towel, and shaving after getting out. It wasn’t anything much, but it frustrated him, and he would rather Grantaire help him than grope blindly around the bathroom for twice as long as he needed to, or slice his chin with the razor and have Grantaire mop up the blood after.

            “Want me to stay out here while you get in, or…” Grantaire asked. He knew Jehan was self conscious, though he had little to be concerned about. He really was a beautiful example of a human being, with a delicate build and bird-like lightness in every movement he made. Jehan was a hummingbird; small in stature, but striking, with long limbs and a pale complexion.

            “Yes please,” he called in return, but he seemed unsure, and a moment later he kicked the door open. “I mean…I trust you,” he called, unsure of where Grantaire was. He was still sitting on the bed, with a clear view into Jehan’s bathroom, but he turned away.

            “That doesn’t mean you want me in the bathroom,” he replied.

            “No…But I trust you not to berate me…even though I look like an archaeopteryx skeleton…” Grantaire looked up, and saw Jehan kicking off his leggings and underthings. He kept an arm wrapped around his chest, using the other to feel his way to the edge of the bathtub, gingerly stepping over the edge and into the shower.

            “You don’t look like an archaeopteryx skeleton,” Grantaire said with a laugh, standing and entering the bathroom, closing the door behind him to keep the warmth from escaping—Jehan was always cold.

            “A girl, then,” he replied from behind the shower curtain, scrubbing down and rinsing off before feeling for the shampoo. He knocked it off the edge of the tub, and Grantaire handed it to him.

            “Nothing wrong with looking feminine,” he said, sitting on the toilet cover, taking off his own shirt, the bathroom becoming a sauna. “I think you’re cute,” Jehan blushed as he rinsed his long hair. It hit his tailbone, now, and he wished it could see to put it into fancy up-dos how he used to. All he could manage now was a braid or a ponytail.

            “I would return the compliment, but I have no idea what you look like!” he turned off the shower and felt for the towel, finding it in a moment and pulling it from the curtain rod. He pushed the curtain aside and sat on the ledge of the tub, the towel around his waist, his hair dripping down his back.

            “I’m not much to look at,” Grantaire smiled, placing a hand on Jehan’s shoulder before giving him a quick kiss.

            “I know your chin is scratchy!”

            “So is yours,” Grantaire retorted.

            “Help me shave, then?” he asked.

            “it would be my pleasure, Prouvaire,” he smiled.

            Jehan couldn’t grow any sort of facial hair. What little he did grow was thin and wispy, as well as terribly patchy. Though there was little of it, it was just as red as his hair, and very visible, so he did have to shave, but without the ability to use a mirror, shaving had become difficult and dangerous. He never allowed Feuilly to help him, causing multiple cuts on his chin and jaw. At one point, he wore four different Band-Aids on his face. But Grantaire assured him that asking for help was alright, and nothing to be ashamed of. He pointed out that many men went to the barber for a shave. It wasn’t unusual to have someone else razor your chin.

            “Shaving cream!” Grantaire called. Jehan laughed and held out his hands for the foam, which he promptly spread across his chin and neck. “Look up,” Jehan rolled his deadened eyes towards the ceiling without moving his head, a joke. “Oh my God,” Grantaire laughed. Jehan smiled before craning his neck, looking up for real and allowing Grantaire to run the razor up his neck slowly, carefully.

            “Finished?” Jehan asked after a short while.

            “Yup. Face time,” Jehan kept his head still and level while Grantaire got rid of his pale stubble. Soon he was completely smooth, and Grantaire handed him a bottle of aftershave.

            “Smooth?” Grantaire asked.

            “Mm hm,” Jehan replied, standing and leaning into Grantaire.

            “What the hell get off me you’re soaked!” he joked. Jehan laughed and leapt into his arms, his dripping hair sticking to Grantaire’s face and shoulders.

            “Hate you,” he said into the crook of Jehan’s neck as he embraced him.

            “I hate you too,” Jehan replied. Grantaire carried him from the bathroom and sat him on the bed, getting another towel and wringing out his hair. Jehan didn’t like the hairdryer. He said it was too noisy and hot. So Grantaire blotted it nearly dry between his hands, then brushed it and put it into two braids for the night.

            “Thank you, R,” he smiled as Grantaire tossed him his pajamas—A tie dyed T shirt that was four sizes too big and a pair of pastel floral PJ pants. Jehan snuggled into bed, hugging his fluffy blanket and enjoying the cool sheets on his damp skin. After putting on his own pajamas, Grantaire joined him, snuggling him close as the moonlight settled on the duvet. “I love you so,”

            “Aw thanks, Lovebug,” Grantaire said with a smile, nuzzling Jehan’s hair. “I love you too,”


	6. Chapter 6

Earlier in the month, Jehan had been accepted into a guide dog program suggested by Grantaire. Though slowly becoming more independent—he could bake cookies, go to the grocery store, and, finally, shower alone—it was easy, especially for Grantaire, to tell he was still depressed. He would leave to leach a lesson in the early afternoon, Jehan typically listening to the TV or reading quietly, and would return a few hours later to find Jehan in exactly the same place on the sofa, asleep. Though thin before, he continued to lose weight, his appetite gone. Grantaire wasn’t sure if it was the depression or the blindness, but Jehan had trouble sleeping at night as well. It was as if his body confused night and day, and even when Grantaire had a day without any patients scheduled, he struggled to keep Jehan awake. He hoped a dog would give Jehan something to do, some company for when Grantaire couldn’t be with him. He also hoped it would give Jehan a bit more confidence in his ability to navigate the surrounding city on his own. He could get to and from the grocery store by himself with his cane, but it was only a few doors down on the corner, and Jehan was afraid to go across the street. Grantaire was sure a dog would help him considerably.

            Jehan was excited when the day finally came to take his dog home. He and a boarder collie called Hazel had been paired, and both she and Jehan had gone through a training program that lasted a few weeks. The dog had been chosen because, of the current class of dogs, she was the smallest, as was Jehan. At only 5’3, very short for a 20 year old man, slender, mid-sized Hazel was the perfect fit.

            Jehan couldn’t get into the car fast enough to pick her up.

            “Excited?” Grantaire asked with a smile when he saw the grin on Jehan’s face as he sat in the passenger seat, holding his cane in his lap.

            “Very excited!” he replied. “I hope she likes our house,”

            “I’m sure she will,” he took Jehan’s hand on the center console.

 

When they arrived at the training center, Hazel was waiting for Jehan, harnessed and ready to go, tail wagging and very happy to see him. He crouched down and extended his arms in what he hoped was the direction of the dog, and hugged her when she ran into his arms. She licked his face, making him laugh, and scratched her chin all the way home, Hazel peeking through the two front seats, her head on Jehan’s shoulder.

            When they got back to the apartment, Hazel lead Jehan up the front path, stopping, as she had been trained to do, at the bottom of the staircase. When Jehan took the first step up, Hazel stayed right by his side. Grantaire lead Jehan and Hazel to the door. After a short while, Hazel would learn the apartment location and be able to guide Jehan there without help. Hazel sat down and waited for Grantaire to open the door before leading Jehan inside.

            “I’d like to sit down,” Jehan said, more for fun than anything. He knew where all the furniture was. But even so, Hazel lead him to the sofa and sat down, prompting Jehan to do the same. “Thank you, my darling,” he smiled, scratching behind Hazel’s perky ears. She rested her chin on Jehan’s knee.

            “She’s funny,” Grantaire said, sitting on the ataman nearby. “She keeps wiggling her ears and cocking her head to the side,”

            “Come, my dear, I’ll show you your bed,” Jehan said with a smile, standing and walking across the room to the corner beside the TV. There sat a canvas dog bed Grantaire had brought, decorated with rainbow colored stripes on a white background, the sides a plethora of flowers. Though he hadn’t know Jehan when he had his sight, he knew him well enough to know it was something he would have liked, and even though he couldn’t see it, the vibe was happy, and Jehan was thankful for the thought. “You sleep here, Hazel! Or in my room. You have another bed in here,” Jehan turned and brought Hazel down the hall into his bedroom, followed shortly by Grantaire, who couldn’t help but grin at Jehan’s joy. He was like a little child excited to show a friend their bedroom. “Here’s your other bed!” he smiled, showing Hazel the second dog bed, this one covered in Van Gogh’s _Irises_ painting—Grantaire’s favorite.

            Jehan was a terribly snuggly person, and really enjoyed physical contact, particularly since losing his sight. It had taken him a while to get back into his snuggly state of mind after everything, but he had, and he would have invited Hazel to sleep in bed with him, but recently, he and Grantaire decided to share a bed. Hazel would have to sleep beside the low mattress on the floor, beside the night table. Jehan was sure she wouldn’t mind.

            “Want to take the harness off? Let her poke around?” Grantaire suggested. Jehan smiled, and removed the blue service vest from Hazel’s back.

            “Should I feed her?”

            “Not till later. But you might want to fill her bowl. I think it’s empty.” He replied as Hazel sat beside Jehan. Though without her vest and ‘off duty’, the dog still seemed protective of Jehan, wishing to stay beside him as he rounded the bed and left the room. She stuck to his heals like a black-and-white shadow.

            Jehan ran his hand down the side of the counter island and felt for the tin bowl that resided there. He had practiced filling it numerous times, to make sure he didn’t spill it, and placed it down on the ground full of water. Hazel lapped at it for a moment before nudging Jehan’s hand, letting him know where she was. He smiled.

            “What a good girl!” he exclaimed, crouching down and scratching her ears.    “Want to go take her out for a spin?” Grantaire joked. Jehan laughed.

            “Where?” he asked.

            “Anywhere you want. I took the day off to pick up Hazel, so I don’t have to be anywhere.”

            “Alright,” Jehan smiled meekly. “Let’s go for ice cream!”

            “Sounds good to me,” Grantaire said as he retrieved Hazel’s harness from the bedroom. He strapped it in place, and gave Jehan the handle.

 

Grantaire held Jehan’s hand, pleased that he no longer had to guide him. Though they had been dating before, it seemed more like they were a couple now, able to hold hands simply because they wanted to, not because Jehan needed to.

            Though Grantaire had witnessed the training sessions and classes Jehan and Hazel went through over the past weeks, he was amazed at how alert and intelligent Hazel was. The stopped at every single street crossing, looking both ways, as well as at the crossing light before allowing Jehan to continue, and briefly sat down at every curb so that Jehan did not trip. She guided him around potholes, construction sites, and open manhole covers. When they arrived at the ice cream parlor, Hazel sat beside Jehan under the overhanging counter, and he offered her a small biscuit from his pocket, which she took happily.

            “Hey, Feuilly! Hi Jehan!” the girl behind the counter said with a smile, placing her hand gently upon Jehan’s. They came to the little parlor all the time, and the girl, Cosette, knew both of them well. Her father owned the parlor, and she worked most days, sometimes with Marius, her boyfriend. But today was a weekday, not busy, and she was alone behind the counter. “And a new friend!” she exclaimed, peering over the tall countertop to the dog, who wagged her tail.

            “That’s Hazel,” Jehan said in his quiet sort of way.

            “Is she your guide dog?” she asked.

            “Yes she is,” he replied.

            “That’s so exciting! Is she helping you?”

            “Very much, so far! We’ve only just picked her up today!”

            “Well I’m glad you’ve brought her! I love dogs, but Marius is allergic, so we can’t get one. But anyhow, would you like the usual?” she asked.

            “Please,” Jehan smiled, leaning on Grantaire’s arm, holding his hand.

            “Me too,” Grantaire smiled. Cosette handed Jehan his cup of lemon ice with sliced strawberries, and gave Grantaire his cone of chocolate.

            “Let’s go sit, Hazel!” Jehan said. Hazel immediately stood at attention, listening to the direction and leading Jehan to the nearby bench. Grantaire sat beside him with a grin.

            “She’s smart,” he noted. Jehan nodded, licking his spoon, his hands shaking minimally today, which he was glad for.

            “Mommy it’s Jehan and R!” a tiny voice cooed from nearby. Jehan smiled. It was Thomas, the little boy they had met months ago at the very same ice cream stand. They saw him often, walking with his mother, at the local market, or, of course, getting ice cream. Jehan heard his footsteps hurrying over and smiled.

            “Hey Thomas!” Grantaire said with a grin.

            “Hiya, R!” he replied, his mother in tow.

            “How have you been?” she asked.

            “Very well, thank you!” Jehan smiled.

            “Is this your dog?” the little boy asked, reaching out a hand to pet her. His mother stopped him.

            “Don’t pet the dog, Thomas,” she warned, taking his hand.

            “How come?” he asked sadly.

            “She’s working!” Grantaire explained between licks of his ice cream.

            “What’s she doing?”

            “She’s helping Jehan. She guides him while he’s walking so he can do more things on his own.” He explained.

            “But what about your cane?” he asked, looking to Jehan.

            “Well…My cane can’t really tell me when there are cars coming or if there’s something hanging that I could run into,” Jehan replied.

            “She looks around for him,” his mother explained. “And when you pet her, she gets distracted and won’t be able to help Jehan properly.”

            “Oh okay,” the little boy said with a smile. “But what’s her name, though?”

            “Hazel!” Jehan said. Hazel looked up, waiting for a direction. When none came, she placed her head in Jehan’s lap, and he scratched her head.

            “That’s a good name,” he replied as his mother tugged him away.

            “Have a good day! Sorry to rush away, but we’re late for kindergarten!” she smiled.

            “Bye!” Jehan waved. Grantaire smiled. “He’s so sweet!” he licked more lemon ice off his spoon.

            “Yeah he’s a cute little guy,” Grantaire agreed. “You’re not shaky today,”

            “Yeah, I’m having a good day, I suppose,”

            “I love you so much,”

            “I love you too, my darling,” he turned towards Grantaire’s voice, and R kissed his nose, his lips cold from the ice cream.

           

That night, Jehan put Hazel to bed, just before turning in himself. The dog bed was just under Jehan’s side of the people bed. She looked very pleased with her cushion in the corner, and hunkered right down.

            “Goodnight, beautiful,” Grantaire said as he sat down in bed.

            “Oh my darling, what I sweet thing to say!” Jehan smiled, rolling over to face him.

            “I wasn’t talking to you,” he replied, joking. Jehan laughed.

            “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t a nice thing to say!” Jehan extended his arms for a hug, and Grantaire scooped him up, hugging him tight for a long moment before laying down together. If Hazel could roll her eyes, she would have.


End file.
